


Matter

by Crowgirl



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Denial of Feelings, Emotionally Repressed, First Kiss, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:01:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23045200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: Geralt makes another grab for the bottle -- it’s an odd-looking thing: opaque milk glass and quite slender where most of his are plain colored glass and almost circular.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 345
Collections: One Prompt; What Do?





	Matter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Catchclaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/gifts).



Geralt doesn’t immediately realise the bottle is there; he’s thinking about how many ingredients he needs to get at the next town in order to fill the empties. _Rhubarb, pennyroyal, monkshead, oil…_ He frowns at the array, glinting in the sunlight on the grass. They’ve camped early today -- Roach picked up a stone in one hoof -- so he’s taking the opportunity to sort out his supplies. The fire is built and two rabbits caught and turned into what will be a stew simmering in the pot beside him; Jaskier had been fussing with his lute until he apparently got bored and went to check on Roach. 

The afternoon is warm and quiet and they’ve found what can only be described, really, as a _sylvan glen_ to camp in for the night: an open space between a thickly grown wood and the gentle rise of a hill: there’s even running water nearby. Geralt would be suspicious of it but there’s been no sign of anything with even the slightest malicious intent for miles.

‘And what’s this?’ Jaskier swoops in from where he’d been nattering something or other to Roach and picks up a bottle. Geralt doesn’t get a look at it before Jaskier has thumbed out the cork and is sniffing it. ‘Ooh, smells tasty.’

Geralt frowns and looks up. ‘That can’t be righ-- Jaskier!’ 

Jaskier swallows thoughtfully and licks his lips, flourishing the bottle at the end of one long arm. ‘Mmm -- tastes tasty, too.’ He swings away around the fire before Geralt can grab him, taking another long swig. ‘Oh, yes -- yes, definitely -- Geralt, you’ve been holding out on me!’

‘Jaskier, give me the damned--’ 

Jaskier waltzes easily away from Geralt’s grab and he’s even humming a tune, blast him, music for his own curvetting. ‘Oh, no, no, no, no, I’m not sharing _now_ \-- not after you’ve been holding out on me all this time!’ He takes another laughing mouthful and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. 

Geralt plants his feet, puts his hands on his hips, and glowers. ‘Jaskier. Give. Me. That. Bottle.’

Jaskier widens his eyes. ‘Ooooh, very scary.’ He drops his hand, takes another drink, and tilts his head, looking at Geralt thoughtfully. ‘Or -- I mean -- it _would_ be scary. It _was_ scary, certainly.’ 

‘Was?’ Geralt inquires before he can stop himself, raising an eyebrow.

‘Oh, the _eyebrow--’_ Jaskier claps a hand over his heart and spins away again, his arms out so he looks like a child’s pinwheel floating on a breeze. The end of his spin brings him back to the fire and within a few feet of Geralt. ‘The eyebrow is _very_ good, I grant you.’

Geralt makes another grab for the bottle -- it’s an odd-looking thing: opaque milk glass and quite slender where most of his are plain colored glass and almost circular -- and Jaskier backs up a step and knocks over the framework of sticks where Geralt had stretched the rabbit skins. ‘Oh, poor bunnies --’ 

Jaskier tries to bend over, bottle still in one hand, and ends up making a swooping kind of stagger and coming back up again cackling with laughter. ‘Nope, nope, nope, that’s not gonna work! Poor bunnies will just have to stay on the ground.’ 

The rabbit skins are really neither here nor there but whatever’s in the bottle seems to be hitting like Nilfgaardian vodka and if Jaskier keeps tripping like this he’s going to end up actually injuring himself, so Geralt takes a long step forward and tries to catch his arm. Jaskier sees him coming and tries to duck but instead stumbles forward and ends up with his nose pressed to Geralt’s collarbone.

Geralt freezes, the entire world suddenly shrinking to the sensation of hot breath through the thin cotton of his shirt. It isn’t that he’s unused to touch so much as the things that are touching him are usually trying to tear his skin off. He doesn’t blame them for that -- after all, he’s trying to do the same to them -- but touch generally means pain and this -- this is not painful.

Jaskier sighs and lolls against Geralt’s shoulder for a minute, then hauls himself upright, using Geralt’s forearm as a brace. He peers up at Geralt for a minute, wide eyes blinking a shade of blue Geralt would swear he’d never seen before he met Jaskier. ‘Mm….yes, the eyebrow is very good…’

Geralt catches the bottle out of Jaskier’s sagging hand, ignoring the fact that Jaskier’s grabbed a fold of Geralt’s shirt to help himself stand upright. He sniffs the bottle a little suspiciously: there’s liquor, sugar, a good dose of cardamom, and something flowery -- elderblossom possibly. He puts the bottle down by their pile of firewood and has to grab Jaskier again because the idiot is sagging towards the fire. 

‘You’re drunk,’ Geralt grumbles. ‘And you should sit down or you're going to hurt yourself--’

Jaskier giggles -- flat-out _giggles_ \-- and bats his lashes at Geralt and sags towards him again along Geralt’s outstretched arm. ‘Ooh, what, on one of the big pointy things you keep around for no good reason?’

‘Yes. Exactly. Now sit down.’

Jaskier shakes his head, his hair flying out around his ears. ‘Nope, nope, nope.’ He jabs a finger at Geralt’s chest. _‘You_ should pick a place. I might sit on something big.’ Geralt is imagining the quick flick of Jaskier’s eyes down his chest. ‘And pointy. By accident.’

Geralt has to let Jaskier go while he selects a place where Jaskier will be absolutely incapable of doing injury to himself -- or to anything else valuable -- and Jaskier grabs up the bottle, sloshes the rest of the wine around, and before Geralt can get it, downs the rest. He grins cheerfully at Geralt and hands him the empty bottle with a flourish. ‘Tasty.’

‘You’re probably not supposed to drink it like that.’

‘Sweet.’ Jaskier smacks his lips and finally sits down when Geralt gets a hand on each shoulder and _shoves._ He collapses into a semi-graceful heap on the blanket and immediately twists around to look up at Geralt. 

Geralt goes back to his side of the fire, sinks back onto the folded blanket, and takes a thoughtful sniff at the bottle. There are no drugs, he’s sure of that, so Jaskier is in no danger apart from his apparent total loss of ability to hold his drink. But why would someone sneak this into Geralt’s pack? Had he bought it himself and forgotten? He holds out the bottle and frowns at it. Now he looks at it -- hadn’t the innkeeper two or three villages back had bottles like this? She’d said something about how the opaque glass kept out the sunlight.

‘You really are _very_ pretty.’

Geralt jerks out of his thoughts about the bottle and stares through the flames at Jaskier. 

Jaskier tilts his head and nods to himself then, with some effort, pushes himself onto hands and knees and crawls around the fire towards Geralt who is so stunned by the idea that Jaskier might find him _pretty_ that he forgets to move out of the way.

‘I meant to leave some for you,’ Jaskier says, stopping in front of Geralt and sinking back on his heels. He nods towards the bottle.

‘I already think you’re pretty,’ Geralt says before he can think and bites the tip of his tongue in horror. He manages to drop the bottle before he crushes it.

Jaskier stares at him for a minute, then a look of incredulous delight spreads over his face and he levels a finger at Geralt. _‘You_ think I’m _pretty.’_

‘You’re drunk,’ Geralt counters, knowing it’s a weak hand. 

Jaskier tries to narrow his eyes but just ends up squinting and waves his hand airily. ‘That’s as may be, sir Witcher, but _you’re_ not and _you_ think I’m pretty!’

Geralt sighs and waves at the folded blanket on the other side of the fire. ‘Just -- sit there until you sober up.’ 

‘Mmm…’ Jaskier narrows his eyes, tapping one finger on his chin and looking at Geralt thoughtfully then shakes his head and, before Geralt can do anything intelligent, most of his personal space is Jaskier. 

‘I don’t feel like sitting over there,’ Jaskier says cheerfully, grinning up at him from where he’s _draped_ himself across Geralt’s thighs and appropriated his shoulder as a rest, curling against him as though Geralt is his own personal lounge. 

For about the space of perhaps three heartbeats, Geralt’s mind goes absolutely blank.

He’s aware of the sound of a piece of damp wood spitting in the fire and the bubble of the water in which the rabbits are stewing. The blanket he’s sitting on could use a wash; he’s used it as a saddle-pad once too often. He can smell Jaskier’s shirt, the faint smell of the dye, perfume and soap, a stronger smell of liquor. All he can feel is the weight of Jaskier against him and he wants to wrap his hands, his arms, his entire _body_ around Jaskier so Jaskier can’t move, can’t leave, can’t be hurt, but the thing most likely to hurt Jaskier is Geralt himself, not that he would mean to or want to but--

‘Now,’ Jaskier says, settling himself with all the satisfaction of a cat before a warm fire. Geralt knows he must be gawking, isn’t sure if his jaw has actually dropped or not, but Jaskier just smiles at him and reaches up to stroke a thumb along Geralt’s cheekbone. Geralt doesn’t know what to do with the touch so he does nothing which Jaskier apparently takes as encouragement. 

‘So now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, perhaps we could move things along a little?’ Jasker’s pushing himself forward, one hand planted flat on the earth between Geralt’s knee and the loose earth from the firepit. ‘I mean, I’m a patient man, but--’

‘You’re not patient,’ Geralt hears himself say, more quietly than he’s said anything in a long time but Jaskier is right _there,_ all of him right _there._ The blue of his eyes -- it’s violet color, maybe? Or perhaps larkspur would be a closer match. Maybe a wisteria; he’d seen that once growing around a house in the far south: sweet-scented, clinging, too beautiful to ignore, all things that Jaskier is currently being.

Jaskier smiles again. ‘I can be. When I’m motivated.’ His thumb traces the line of Geralt’s nose, hovers briefly over his lips without touching them, then strokes down over his chin and Geralt is absolutely powerless to stop _any_ of it as Jaskier leans closer, pressing his thumb to the notch in Geralt’s chin.

Jaskier shakes his head, his gaze fixed on his own hand. ‘This fucking… I don’t know, is it even a dimple? Whatever it is -- I never thought I’d be fantasizing about someone’s _chin.’_

Geralt’s on his feet before he thinks about it. 

‘Whoa…’ Jaskier undoes himself from the heap he’d landed in and looks up at Geralt, eyes wide, hands out as though Geralt were a spooking horse. ‘What...the hell was that.’ 

‘You’re touching me. _Why_ are you _touching_ me?’ 

Jasker pushes himself up onto his knees and looks up at Geralt. ‘Well. Uh. Because I wanted to? And I thought maybe you wanted me to.’ He holds up a finger. ‘Actually, no, scratch that. I am _sure_ you wanted me to.’

‘You’re not drunk.’

Jasker waves a hand in the air. ‘I’m...very relaxed. And I _did_ mean to share. Uh. Sorry about that.’ 

‘You bought that bottle. It never was mine.’ 

Jaskier clears his throat. ‘Well. Not technically, no, although you must admit we have fallen into a delightful kind of share and share alike--’

‘You’re crazy.’ Geralt can feel his pulse in his throat, a weirdly choking sensation. 

‘Well, no,’ Jaskier says, slowly, ‘I _thought_ I was advancing the -- er --’ He pauses and clears his throat again because apparently draping himself all over Geralt and _fondling_ him is fine but finding the words to explain why he’d done it is not. ‘The, ah, tension between us to its logical and hopefully rather delightful conclusion.’

‘There isn’t--’

Jaskier holds up a hand. ‘Ah, you’re not a liar, remember?’ 

Geralt swallows a growl. ‘I don’t do this.’

‘Oh, but I know you do because I’ve been in the brothels. Believe me, those women talk.’

‘Not -- not like this.’ Geralt waves a hand between them. 

Jaskier cocks his head. ‘Not -- not what, not men? Well, that’s a lie because I remember that place in Avendale. Not outside? Okay, I mean, I’m willing to wait for the next town but I have to say it will seriously put a cramp in my future plans--’

‘Not with people who matter.’ Geralt bites out every word.

Jaskier blinks at him, then presses a hand to his chest. ‘I _matter?_ Geralt, that’s the sweetest--’

‘Don’t fucking say it.’ Geralt takes two strides to where their packs are mounded together and starts unwinding his swords from their leather.

‘What? Wait, what? What are you doing?’ 

‘Going to find something to kill.’ Geralt slips the first strap in place over his shoulder but Jaskier’s hands get in the way of the second. ‘Jaskier--’

‘Geralt.’ Jaskier is standing right in front of him, almost close enough to stand on his boots, his hands above and below Geralt’s on the strap. 

‘Let me go.’ 

‘No.’

This time Geralt lets the growl come through in his voice. ‘Let. Me. Go.’ 

‘Now, see, that _should_ be terrifying,’ Jaskier says conversationally. ‘What with the growling and the leather and the swords and all?’ He lifts his hand off the leather strap and ducks forward, lowering his voice to an almost conspiratorial tone, as if sharing a secret. ‘But I’m not scared of you. Haven’t been for a long time. And you think I don’t pay attention but I do and I saw what you did in Avendale.’ 

Geralt tries to remember what the hell had happened in Avendale. He can’t even remember what it was he killed there, let alone--

‘You took a man who looked like me,’ Jaskier says softly. ‘And you looked fucking heartbroken the next morning when I came out with -- whatever her name was.’

‘I did not--’ He hadn’t thought Jaskier had even seen him leave the room let alone who went with him.

‘You did. I know you think you’ve got this perfect blank expression going but--’ Jaskier shrugs and smiles at him again; it looks a little sad this time, still sweet, but sad and Geralt wants to change it back to Jaskier’s usual sunny expression but he _can’t,_ that’s not what he _does--_ ‘I could tell.’

Geralt swallows hard. ‘You’re delusional.’ 

Jaskier _hmm_ s under his breath and reaches up to brush Geralt’s hair back. Geralt should step out of his reach; he should strike Jaskier’s hand away; he should -- 

Jaskier twists a lock of white hair around his fingers and _tugs_ ; Geralt goes with the pull out of surprise and Jaskier tastes of nothing but sweetness, the kind Geralt never allows himself. He hears himself groan and Jaskier pulls back, licking his lips, flushed, slightly out of breath.

‘Nope, definitely not delusional.’ Jaskier licks his lower lip again, leaving it glistening slightly in the last afternoon sunlight and Geralt wants to lean forward and _bite_ it but if he does that, he won’t be able to let go and he _needs_ to be able to let go. Jaskier needs him to be able to let go even if he doesn’t think he does. ‘And I’m not stupid, either,’ Jaskier adds before Geralt can say anything. He taps a finger between Geralt’s eyebrows. ‘I can see what you’re thinking. Always ready for the noble sacrifice.’

‘I’m not noble.’ 

‘We can argue about that later.’ Jaskier lets Geralt’s hair slip free of his fingers and plants his hand in the center of Geralt’s chest. ‘But if you’re going to say I matter, then I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you do, too. And you want this. You want _me._ And that _matters,_ Geralt, particularly since I want you back and I don’t care if I have to stand here until the middle of next week and keep saying it -- although -- if you make me do that, I can’t guarantee it won’t be in my sleep at least part of the time--’

Kissing Jaskier is a remarkably effective method of shutting him up. It’s a dumb thing to do and strategically speaking it’s probably worse than that: Jaskier is only barely _not_ a liability most days and---

‘Ah, you’re thinking too much.’ Jaskier’s hand is gentle, almost tentative against his cheek and that’s _wrong,_ that’s _all_ wrong because no-one is ever _gentle_ with him, no-one _needs_ to be gentle with him and he grabs at Jaskier’s hand like it’s a lifeline to something he wants to understand. ‘Do you want me, Geralt?’ 

Geralt closes his eyes and tips his head forward until their foreheads rest together. ‘You fucking know I do.’ 

‘Well, then.’ Jaskier’s other hand comes up, his fingers resting along Geralt’s temples. ‘There’s no problem, is there?’ 

There are nothing _but_ problems and Geralt opens his mouth to explain this, in some detail and at length, but Jaskier’s kissing him again and the taste of belief is almost as sweet on his tongue as the sugared wine. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was _meant_ to go up almost exactly a month ago with [Catchclaw's fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579582) but I caught a bad case of Revisions and, well, here it is. Many many thanks to herself and elizajane for the beta -- all remaining errors, inconsistencies, infelicities, etc., etc....


End file.
